


Inside a little boy is crying

by alinewrites



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:19:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alinewrites/pseuds/alinewrites





	1. Chapter 1

Glynn was standing on the stage behind the cafeteria, reporters scrambling for attention in front of him, holding out their microphones. Glynn looked both annoyed and resigned, his usual half-smile on –he’d been through much worse in the past few years.

“Warden Glynn, do you know who gave Duane Lennox the knife?” “And how the knife passed the metal detector in what is supposed to be a high security prison?” “Who’s responsible for letting it happen?”

Yeah, Leo, just explain that; I’m listening –Toby thought he could hear Duane laugh far in the distance; throw his head back and howl like a wolf.

Leo Glynn shook his massive head, explaining again. “It’s impossible the weapon was brought in; we assume it was given to Lennox by another inmate.”

Like Glynn was going to acknowledge publicly that one of his CO’s had screwed up big time. Always the same old bullshit.

At that point Tobias Beecher rose from the couch where he was sitting and switched off the TV. There would be an investigation, as usual and as usual it would shed no light on what had happened. Why waste money for a death-row inmate who would’ve died anyway?

Toby was safe.

He stood there for a moment, watching the black screen. God save your soul, Duane Lennox, he thought. I did what you asked, you got what you wanted. Now… He could hear Duane’s voice in his head. “After it’s over, Beecher, forget me and move on. Find yourself a nice girl…”  
“A woman? Why not a man?”

Lennox’s eyes had turned to a very dark shade; wrong question.  
“Whatever you want,” he’d said, “Just move on.”

Easier said than done, Duane.

Toby had believed that Lennox’s death would free him from this mesmerizing, possessive, smothering, impossible love, cut this tight umbilical cord, leave Oz and Schillinger and Adebisi, even Saïd’s friendship and Pete’s affection behind, start fresh, new resolutions, a new Beecher. No such luck; memories were sticking to him like glue, following him, poisoning his days, his nights, ruining the few moments he had alone, tainting even the time he spent with his kids.

Toby pressed his palms against his eyes and sighed loudly, trying to breathe out all the pain, the worry, the guilt…

Things weren’t that simple.

**************************

Suicide… Lennox’s last “fuck you” to the society, the judges, the cops, his victims’ families; Lennox’s way to keep the upper hand until the end. “I broke the law –once more- and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.”

In the District Attorney’s office the conversation had been going on and on for a full hour, Reuben and his assistants trying to process the little information they had, tension and excitement filling the room –Christopher Keller kept silent, listening to the others until finally Reuben turned to him and asked for his opinion. An expectant silence fell, all attention on him now. Barely moving his shoulders in a dismissing shrug, Keller said, “No idea. I’ll pass on this one, I guess.”

He’d kept his tone light and indifferent, convincing as always –he was lying, Reuben could tell; he knew his brilliant assistant much better than anyone else did and he never passed on anything.

Keller had an idea, he just wouldn’t voice it.

When the others left Reuben held him back.

“So? No idea, really?”  
“No, Sir.”  
“Come on, Keller; don’t pull any of your tricks, I know you’re up to something.”

Keller stared at him for a moment, shook his head.

“Tobias Beecher did it. He was in Oswald with Lennox; shared his pod. Lennox had his back in exchange for the usual prison currency -sex. Plus he’s a keen opponent to the death penalty, just like this psychiatrist in Oswald, the nun. He *gave* Lennox the shank.”  
“Any evidence to back this up?”  
“No. Believe me, if I had any, Beecher would already be back behind bars.”  
“No evidence, no charges; no charges, no trial. No matter how much you dislike Mr Beecher, I won’t go there.”  
“I didn’t ask you to.”

Reuben knew better than insisting; he sighed and Keller strolled out, like a tiger on the hunt.

Christopher Keller meeting Tobias Beecher on the next day was pure coincidence. They met on the staircase; Keller walking up to his office, Beecher stepping down; their eyes met like swords.

“I heard you took up Desmond’s case?” Keller asked.  
“Yes.”

Keller nodded. “One more desperate case? Do you make it your area of expertise?”  
“Desmond is ill. Psychiatrists diagnosed schizophrenia; you don’t send a schizophrenic to the electric chair. You can’t.”  
“Exactly what kind of game are you playing, Beecher? All this pro-bono work you’re doing in Oswald. Is it the only way to keep in touch with your old friends? Sink to your old comfort level? Or are you trying to shield as many criminals from justice as you can?”

Beecher’s game hardened, his lips a straight thin line.

“You know, Mr Keller, the more I know you, the more I think you’re one of the most loathsome individuals I ever met.”  
“Really? Of course, considering *who* you’ve been hanging around lately I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Fucker.

“By the way, I’m curious. How did you get the shiv to Lennox? How did you manage to avoid being searched?” Keller said, staring at Beecher, his eyes like scalpels.  
“I didn’t give Lennox anything.”  
“Don’t bullshit me Beecher, of course you did. He asked you for it as a proof of your love; he was in, you were out and that made you feel so guilty; you got the shank and found a way to take it inside Oswald, allow Lennox to give us his last ‘fuck you’. You were his lawyer after all.”

Beecher had to grab the rail to keep his balance; Keller didn’t miss that.

“Was that psychiatrist, Sister Pete, involved in the plot?”

Something on Beecher’s face gave him away; Keller felt the rush of victory, adrenaline burning through his veins. Just what he needed, the best and only drug -triumph. He allowed himself a moment to savour it, a moment to keep Beecher trapped under his gaze before shrugging.

“You can sleep in peace, Beecher, I have no way to prove anything and Reuben doesn’t even want to hear about it anymore. But I know, and you know it’s what happened. I can tell; I knew Lennox, I worked on the fucking psychopathic’s case when he was first arrested 10 years ago.”

“Takes one to know one, something like that?”

Keller didn’t even grace him with an answer, just flashed a smile and walked down the stairs, his shoulders brushing against Beecher’s when they passed each other.

Jesus, the man was dangerous, Beecher thought; and fucking smart; he hadn’t expected such a frontal attack.

/I dealt with tougher than you, Keller; it will take more to drag me down. /

Joey “Little” Desmond’s trial started a month later. Joey was only 17 when he killed five people in a bar, pretending that a demon hidden in the TV set had ordered him to. Sheer schizophrenic delirium, a diagnosis confirmed by two psychiatrists. But Keller remained unconvinced and dug a little deeper; he managed to find something about old unsettled debts; Joey belonged to a gang that owed a lot of cash to one of the victims; he read the psychological reports again; Joey was schizophrenic but his IQ was above average; Keller found another shrink to say that maybe the boy wasn’t really schizophrenic; maybe just a borderline case.

“Desmond wasn’t hearing voices that night; there was no demon hidden inside the TV set. He planned the whole thing; killed five people to cover the murder of the only victim that mattered. Desmond may be crazy today but that night 18 months ago he was in full possession of his faculties. He deserves to be judged for what he was and did at the moment. A calculating cold blooded murderer.”

Desmond’s mental state had worsened in prison. At barely 21 he was emaciated, disfigured by facial tics, manic; keeping his eyes on the ceiling, talking to himself, drugged by the antipsychotic meds he was fed. What should’ve worked in his favour backfired; Keller knew how to play to the jury’s fears. A psychiatric hospital, even lock-up wards, isn’t a prison –what if Desmond escaped and killed again? What would the voices ask him to do if he stopped taking his meds –and he would, schizophrenics did most of the time? Were they ready to take the risk? Would Mr Beecher take responsibility if the worst happened? Could the jury live with themselves?

And even Beecher’s brilliant defence wasn’t enough for a reversal; Keller won. Desmond understood the verdict and clutched to Beecher, begging him, crying, yelling, spitting curses at the judge, at Keller and the jury while Beecher tried to calm him down, hugging him like a child, a terrified animal lost in a world filled with demons that no one could see but him; Keller was the only one who didn’t look away from the unbearable scene as the guards dragged Joey out.

Beecher stood in the courtroom long after that. Keller was packing his files, ready to leave but Beecher had to let go of his anger now, if he kept it inside any longer he feared he would do something stupid. Get drunk. Hit someone.

“Why don’t you just use a firing squad?” Beecher asked him.  
“I’m only doing my job, Beecher, protecting people from the likes of your client.”  
“Stick it, Keller, I know better.”

He was walking out when Keller grabbed him, seized his arms and pushed him into a dark corner of the hall.

“Care to explain that last remark?”

Payback time, you asshole, Beecher thought.

“I spent three years with men who killed for sport, for fun, a word, a glance, anything; I shared my cell with Duane Lennox who’d tortured and killed 5 young men; I know what a killer is, I know how their minds work. There are killers on both sides of the law.”

Keller’s hands were bruising his arms but he didn’t care.

“You’re one of them,” Beecher said, “destroying lives just the same.”

The grip loosened; Beecher was barely able to stand up, shaking with anger and stress; Keller stepped back, his face hidden in the shadows.

“No. You’re wrong,” Keller’s voice had a strange tone. A pleading tone. Beecher shrugged; why would he give a fuck about Christopher Keller? He took a step forward and was about to walk away but he was pushed back again.

“You think you know everything, don’t you? Rich family, everything handed to you on a silver platter, nothing to fight for. Do you know what I had to go through to be where I am?”  
“No. And quite frankly I don’t give a shit. Now you let go of me or I’m going to file a harassment lawsuit at you faster than you can spit.”  
“You were given everything,” Keller shouted at Beecher’s retreating back, “and you threw it all away! What kind of person are you?”  
“A man –which is something you obviously forgot to be for a very long time,” Beecher said above his shoulder, and left without one more word.

Keller stood there for a while then finally drove back to his apartment, any sense of triumph washed away; he showered, ate a cold pizza, and crashed in front of his desk, Beecher’s words echoing through his mind, rousing old fears, half-forgotten nightmares.

Reminding him of the lies he’d been told, some of them he’d believed.

He’d believed he’d succeed in being someone in spite of an underprivileged background; he’d believed if he made enough effort, worked hard enough, gave up everything–love, friendship, entertainment- he’d reach the top. Well he did; it took him much longer than it should have because he had to study in a an anonymous university when rich guys like Beecher were welcomed in any of the Ivy fucking League places, and because he lacked most of the cultural experience he needed; he had to work probably three times more than Beecher to be acknowledged as a good lawyer; becoming an ADA had been an obstacle course. In the end he’d got used to people looking at him strangely, talking behind his back, because in the end he was *good*, in the end he was *better* than anyone else; he’d overcome the loneliness, the void of feeling constantly out of place because he’d believed that his own merits would open some magic door and that he’d find a place where he’d fit.

“Care only about the work,” one of his teacher told him, someone he’d considered almost as the father he didn’t have, “the rest will follow.”

But nothing had followed. The friends he’d lost; the loves he’d given up, three years of a disastrous marriage –nothing had ever replaced that. Loneliness was no more a feeling; it had turned into a physical pain; and it wasn’t about sex; sex he could get whenever he wanted it; cheap sex, loveless sex; he’d had lovers, he’d been loved. But along the way he’d forgotten how to love and sex without love made him sick, made him angry, made him feel worthless.

He went through his datebook, skimming through the names of people he hadn’t seen for months, years –he barely remembered them; even those who’d been close, good friends, lovers, he felt nothing for them anymore.

For the first time in years he felt scared. He wasn’t 40 yet, how would he live the rest of his life like this?

That night he got drunk, woke up hungover, threw up, went running in the park, took a cold shower and went to work. Just another day.

But at the end of the morning, as he was sitting on his desk, dressed in a Prada black suit with a crisp white shirt, looking a lot like a picture in a magazine , Beecher knocked at the open door and walked in without waiting, stood in front of him, wearing khakis and a polo shirt; casual Friday wear at Beecher’s practice, Keller guessed, waiting.

“I owe you an apology for yesterday; that was insulting and unfair. I… I got carried away; the case had gotten at me, I would’ve said anything. I was just looking for disparaging words…”  
“What makes you think I was insulted? What the hell makes you think I cared?”  
“Nothing. I just felt I had to apologize.”  
“You don’t have to. I don’t give a fuck, really; and who do you think you are, anyway? A walking AA poster going through your 12 steps program, forgiving everyone?”

Beecher made a strange noise –half a laugh, half a sniff.

“Believe what you want to believe; I did what I had to.”

Don’t you play all righteous on me Beecher, Keller thought, staring at the man. I know who you are; ex-con, prison bitch, reinstated lawyer…

“Listen… I’m gonna tell you how I feel about all this shit. People like you seem to close ranks when it comes to people like me. Sometimes I think that those who work with me still feel more comfortable with men of your social standing even though you’ve been in prison, even though you let a psychopath use you; even though you drove drunk and nearly killed a little girl; in spite of all this you’re closer to them than I’ll ever be. So please don’t bother and apologize, you’re wasting your time. And mine.”

That earned him an exasperated sigh.

“You’re that tough, uh? Whatever, I did it.”  
“Yeah and it didn’t work, obviously…”  
“Jesus. You’re one paranoid motherfucker.”  
“You don’t think I’d let my personal feelings towards you influence my professional behaviour, do you?”

Uh, uh, wasn’t that the real question, after all, Beecher thought.

“The idea actually occurred to me.”  
“I don’t. I don’t like you; but then I don’t like many people and I certainly never let my personal feeling mess with my job.”  
“Oh. I’m relieved then. Still that wasn’t the reason why I came. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter.”

Beecher was turning on his heels, ready to leave but Keller held him back, caught him by the arms staring at the nasty bruises on his wrists.

He’d done this; purple marks on the pale skin.

Looking up he saw that Beecher had gone quiet and silent, mesmerized by the sight of Keller’s fingers stroking his skin in a slow unconscious motion; Keller saw a loose strand of blond hair dance just inches from his eyes, he saw Beecher’s flushed face and his eyes bluer than ever. He wanted to let go of him because he didn’t even like him and instead found himself sliding his fingers higher, pulling Beecher closer, waiting for him to say something, laugh at him, push him away, protest, call him back to his senses, relying on him for that and when he didn’t Keller kissed him.

Barely a kiss, just the brush of lips against lips, Keller’s gaze not leaving the open door in case someone would walk by. He counted to three and Beecher didn’t move; so he let go of him, went to the door and closed it; Beecher standing there, his eyes clouded, a little breathless –waiting for more?

Jesus, Keller thought, what am I getting myself into? But if felt so damn good, so damn right, he was tired of jerking off alone in the shower and fuck, Beecher had been through much worse after all so why not; not like he was trying to push him awayn maybe Beecher missed that after all, a man’s touch?

Get a grip, Keller; it might be a trick, a plan to make you dirty, compromise you, give Beecher something to use against you, break you, get his revenge… Don’t. Just fucking don’t.

But he came back to Beecher, seized his hips, pulled him against him, laced his fingers in thick strands of hair and looked deep into these blue eyes.

“What fucking game are you playing, Beecher?”  
“No game.”

Then it was too late, the man’s scent, his warmth, were too enticing, Keller didn’t care about anything anymore; desire was too strong this time, he didn’t have the strength to fight it, didn’t even want to try.

Beecher’s lips opened against his, their breaths melted in an urgent kiss, Keller pulled Beecher’s shirt out of his pants and ran his hands all over the warm skin –God it felt so good and hearing Beecher’s moans as he kissed him back, Beecher’s hands locked on the nape of his neck were just what he needed to fuel the fire.

When the kiss ended they just stood there face to face and after a moment Keller let go of Beecher’s body, stepped back, took a deep breath and said, “I think we need to talk.” And Beecher nodded.

**************************

First time Duane Lennox showed up was to rescue Toby from the Aryans. Toby had been doing some pretty good fighting of his own but he was alone against three, reaching the end of his rope when the tall brown haired silhouette materialized beside him; Duane was a good fighter and the Aryan fucks finally took off.

“Does this happen to you everyday?” Lennox had said, a little breathless.  
“Shit happens.”  
“Yeah, it does.”

They were bloodied and bruised; Lennox looked like one of the Three Musketeers, long hair, dark eyes, narrow face with a small moustache and a short beard, muscular body.

“I’m alone in my pod, you’re alone in yours, why not ask McManus? We could share.”  
“Share what?”  
“I’m talking about the pod. You’ll be safe. Nothing you don’t want.”

Duane Lennox was dangerous, his reputation kept everyone away, even Ryan O’Reily; he was suspected of killing five guys, maybe even raping them, and other details Toby wasn’t interested in, didn’t even want to learn about; there would be a second trial later, the bets were on a death sentence but Lennox didn’t seemed to worry. He read a lot, wrote a lot and listened to Toby; from time to time he seemed to disconnect from the reality and just fly away. In such moments his face was like a sculpture made out of the hardest marble; Toby’s newly acquired instincts told him to just shut up and leave him alone.

Later sex came to them naturally; they both felt lonely and in moments of anguish sex was a natural sedative. That had nothing to do with any kind of prison deal; Duane didn’t consider himself as Beecher’s protector although within months he became more and more possessive and jealous; and the inmates knew better than to call Beecher a bitch anyway; those who had still had painful memories of what would happened to them next.

Two months before being released Toby realized he had it bad for Lennox who seemed pretty hooked himself. They exchanged childish oaths, kisses and tears and hugs and after his release Toby kept visiting twice a month in spite of it all; sometimes Duane didn’t even show up, sometimes he was a bitch, sometimes he was just the man Toby loved.

Shit; Beecher cried his heart out when Lennox died and that was something he could share with no one; every time Lennox’s name was mentioned Sister Pete’s brows furrowed in disapproval and she changed the subject.

Sitting in front of Christopher Keller in this bar, far enough from any familiar place where they could’ve been recognized, Beecher realized maybe it hadn’t been love. Maybe he’d kept a part of himself distant enough all along, enough to be able to keep living, keep moving, keep having a life even after he’d lost Duane and the memories of long black hair sliding between his fingers, the dark gaze roaming over him, the taste of his skin, the feeling of his kisses were slowly joining another place in his mind; a place where only dreams lived.

“You’re a survivor,” Duane had told him last time they met, after their last kiss, as Toby gave him the shank, “you’ll forget me and move on.”

“A penny for your thoughts,” Christopher Keller said.  
“You don’t want to know. Anyway this, I mean being here together, is a foolish mistake; if anybody finds out…”  
“Finds out what? We’re only having a drink, what’s wrong about it?”  
“Who are you trying to kid? Since we’ve been here the only thing we’ve been able to think about is when and where we’re going to do it. And how we’re going to hide it afterwards.”

Keller leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, a wicked smile on his lips.

“Really? That’s what you’ve been thinking? I’m a bit surprised, Mr Beecher that a man like you…”  
“Fuck you.”  
“Yeah,” Keller said, his voice low and hungry, his eyes wandering over Beecher’s face and body, “that’s the idea. Come on, let’s take it to my place; I want to fuck you into tomorrow. And as for hiding it… I’ll trust you on that; aren’t you the one who managed to pass a weapon through Oz security checks and fuck us all over?”

Beecher’s face hardened.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”  
The wicked smile narrowed, Keller’s eyes burning with cold determination.

“Probably not.”

They left, Keller drove to his apartment and even in the elevator they kept silent, not touching; not until the door was locked and Keller pulled Beecher in his arms with rough impatience –and kissed him.

Stripped him out of his clothes, pulled him down to the bed, kissed him again.

Beecher was a silent lover, nothing more than muffled moans and hisses of pleasure; when Keller pushed his cock inside him he rested a hand against Keller’s chest.

“Go slow; I want to feel it.” His voice shaking.

Keller obliged, muscles straining, fighting the urge to just let go and fuck Beecher hard, until Beecher was the one who begged for more.

“Fuck, you’re good,” Beecher said, stumbling on the narrow border of ecstasy, wanting to fall, held back by Keller’s hands.

“Yeah,” Keller said with one last thrust, pushing them both over the edge, feeling the earth open under them, “No one complained yet.”

Later Keller fixed a meal; they didn’t really know what time it was, maybe the middle of the night, maybe the cold hours before dawn. Beecher was looking at the shelves loaded with books in the living room. Law books, essays and many books about psychiatry; “Diagnose paranoid delirium”, “Schizophrenia: the viral possibility”, “Psychotic, Lock them in or cure them? The ultimate choice.”

Curious, Beecher pulled out one of them, the one about Schizophrenia; flipped through the pages annotated Keller’s writing and a little picture fell out; a pretty woman in her thirties, brown hair long and curly, empty gaze lost somewhere in a faraway place, a hesitating smile on her face. She was dressed in a long dyed mauve skirt, a black seersucker blouse, barefoot, round glasses sitting low on her nose; glass pearl necklaces around her neck. On the back of the picture was a name. “Michka; 1938-1992”

The book and the picture were pulled out of his hand roughly.

“Private.”  
“Who was she? Why are you so interested in mental illness?”

Keller’s gaze, so dark, brows furrowed.

“You don’t go around poking in my things, OK?”

Keller’s muscular bulk was blocking Beecher against the shelves, Beecher felt his body tense at the idea of being trapped, his hands clenched in fists, his gaze turned cloudy and hard, he was on edge, ready to pounce.

“Easy,” Keller said in a softer tone, “Easy, I’m not going to hurt you, come on, Beecher, it’s OK.”

Beecher relaxed, breathed. “Sorry, sometimes it’s…”  
“Yeah. Why don’t we just have something to eat.”

There were scrambled eggs and coffee and sausages and when they were done Keller said, “So, what about spending the whole day in bed, fucking?”  
“Sounds good to me,” Beecher said.  
“Doesn’t have to be anything more than fucking.”  
“Yeah. Just fucking. Nothing more.”

**************************************

A week later Toby went to Oz –he wanted to see Desmond, but couldn’t, the poor fuck was in solitary so he went to Sister Pete’s office and sat in front of her, telling her the name he’d found on the paper. Michka.

“Michka? Why do you think I should know this name? Is that a first name?” she said, searching her memory, shaking her head.

“I don’t see… ah… wait, maybe there’s a Michka…” then rising, going to her locker and pulling out a file, opening it.

“Wait… Michka Rivers… 32 years old, tried to kill her 6 year old son; convinced a voice in her head ordered her to do so, that he was the incarnation of the devil. I remember this case, when Shirley Bellinger was first incarcerated here I found so many fascinating similarities… Except the fact that Michka Rivers ran after her son with a carving knife through the house and into the street; in the end a crowd of people brought her under control. She was institutionalized and her son was placed in foster care. Terrible story. Poor kid.”

Pictures of Keller’s broad shoulders, dark gaze came dancing in Beecher’s mind. Poor kid.

“But the story doesn’t end there. The woman escaped, managed to find her son, stalked him and tried to kill him again, still because of the voices in her head. This time she nearly succeeded. After that they sent her to a penitentiary hospital far away. I don’t know what happened to the kid but if he’s still alive he probably has heavy psychological sequels.”  
“Or not.”  
“Or not,” Sister Pete sighed, “children are very resilient.”  
“Yes… very resilient.” Beecher said thinking of his own kids and what he’d put them through.

Sister Peter leant forward.

“Just out of curiosity, how did you hear about this woman?”  
“Oh, a coincidence. I found a picture with her name on it in a book at the library, a book about schizophrenia while I was working on Desmond’s case. I guess I just got curious about her.”

She nodded, satisfied.

Beecher walked back to his car slowly. Did the story explain Keller’s attitude in Desmond’s case, taking revenge on his mother in some way? Keller was probably able to distance himself from the story, but then can you ever distance yourself from something like that? He sighed and sat behind the steering wheel.

Fucking Keller had been great; much better than anything he ever tried, better than O’Reily’s heroin, better than Duane, so much better than making love with Katherine. It had been sizzling, dazzling and curiously soothing; they’d parted late in the afternoon and made no promise but the last kiss felt like a promise in itself...

Since then Beecher hadn’t gone to the courthouse again and Keller had given no sign of life so maybe it had just been that –fucking.

But sometimes when he was alone Beecher wished it were more.

 


	2. 2

The phone rang at dawn on December 31st, Beecher nearly falling out of bed, glancing at the clock. 6:30, who the fuck would dare call so early? But he couldn’t help the little pang of anxiety; from his experience, early calls didn’t bode well.

“Hey.”

He froze.

“Hey.”

Keller’s voice, too cool, too casual but still… Beecher sat up, his heart skipping a beat and wasn’t it plain stupid? The guy hates your guts, for God’s sake - and it was only fucking, remember?

“I’ve been wondering if you had anything planned tonight.”  
“No. Well I mean I’m supposed to spend some time at my parents’ place but the prospect isn’t that exciting…”  
“Yeah. Well then I thought I could fuck you into the New Year.”

Beecher had to process the information, wonder if he was supposed to feel hurt or happy or pissed off or insulted.

“Excuse me?”  
“Let me outline it for you; I’m coming over to your place, I’ll bring champagne or anything else you want…”  
“Champagne’s fine, thank you.”  
“… Then I’ll fuck you long and slow the way you like it.”

You shameless smug motherfucker.

“When did I become your bitch? Can you tell me that, Mr Assistant District Attorney Christopher Keller because somehow I missed the latest memo.”

He sounded angry; he heard Keller’s silence and then a sharp intake of breath.

“OK, how about fucking me instead? Listen, I want to see you; no matter when or where; we’re too old for courtship and I bet you wouldn’t believe in some profession of my undying love; I don’t know any other way to ask you. Come on, Beecher, we both want this.”  
“Say it some other way; I’m a helpless romantic.”

Another sigh.

“OK, listen; I’ve been jerking off every day thinking of how sexy and good you are in bed; I’ve been wanting to call you before but I figured you were spending the holidays with your kids so I waited until today but… I’ll probably do something stupid soon, see? So listen, if you’re free, I want to be the lucky one who gets to celebrate New Year’s Eve with you.”

Toby didn’t find anything to say; he heard Keller’s short laugh.

“So? Is there anyone else? Apart from ghosts? Ghosts aren’t very good at keeping company.”

He was right and Beecher gave in. He missed sex; not just fucking, all those small details *around* sex. The desire, the warmth of another body, the tight embrace of strong arms, the foreplay, this tightening in his chest that made pleasure almost unbearable and the short moments afterwards when he could forget the grim reality his life had become and just fly away. And the fact of having someone who wanted him so bad was exhilarating; he’d forgotten how it felt. In two years he hadn’t allowed himself to touch another man, only women and women never showed the same obsessive desire of having him, didn’t chase after him. Women were for dating, marrying, raising kids, comforting their men. Men were for the inside, the wet hot sweaty pleasure of fucking, being fucked, exhausted with sex, unable to move like he’d been some mornings in Oz when just standing up was an achievement and walking to the door a victory. He wanted this feeling back, this sensation of weariness and the pain he felt in muscles he never knew he had and the smug smile on another man’s lips, the prospect that they’d be doing it again and again, wasting the day anticipating what the night would bring , every word uttered loaded with sexual innuendo.

Yeah, he’d wait for Christopher Keller with the same wanton anticipation.

*********************************

It had become a ritual: Keller never spent New Year’s Eve alone; never since that night when the hospital had called to tell him his mother was dead and would he come in to sign the papers? He’d had to sit down, shaking endlessly, trying to process the news –Michka was dead, his mother was dead; he was finally safe. He was alone. He was lost. Never more would he see those pale blue eyes on him, their emptiness; her haggard expression, her pained look when she was lucid, the hatred burning deep inside them when her demons talked to her, told her that this man, her son, was the devil and that she had to rid the world of him. Never more would he enter her hospital room, his heart beating wildly because he didn’t know *who* would be sitting there –a groggy sedated woman, a mother, a monster; no one could tell. Would she yell curses and verses of the Bible at him, ask for an exorcist? Would she cry over the mess she’d made of his life and beg for his forgiveness never could give her? Or would she just be sitting by the window, heavily drugged, nodding gently, a trickle of saliva running down her chin?

It was just fifty-five minutes before 1993 when he entered the hospital room where she was lying, covered with an ugly green sheet; her face pale and quiet, her hair combed and tied with a ribbon, looking like she was asleep, looking like the mother she should’ve been. Keller touched her cheek, half-expecting a smile. He could still remember her smile from so long ago, before madness seized her. She would smile at him and wrap him in her arms, sing nursery rhymes or popular tunes; she smelled of warm flesh, clean clothes and maybe cigarettes and a perfume he’d been looking for everywhere since then. Mothers smelled this way.

He sat by the bed and took her frail hand in his, pressed his lips against her cold skin. A last goodbye.

He left around midnight and wound up in a bar, drank himself senseless, passed out, spent the whole night lying outside in the cold night, yelling, crying, terrified.

Since then he dreaded New Year’s Eves; he would’ve done anything to avoid being alone with Michka’s ghost, memories drowning him in the same sensation of horror than the night he’d woken up in his little bed to find a monster leaning over his bed, brandishing a knife; the memory of the sizzling sensation in his fingertips and toes, the memory of running down the stairs, screaming, running through the door, down the street, people coming out and then…

He called his mom for help; the realization that she was the monster turned Keller’s happy world into a dark and helpless place ruled by fear and grief.

Even now he could still feel all of it. The pain, the loss, the void, his world crumbling. He was only six but the child in him died that day. Never again would he snuggle up in her arms, her warmth, her scent; never again would he listen to her voice whispering that he was her beloved little boy, her Christopher and that nothing would ever come between them. Never again... He called out for her when the woman from the social services took him away; later he begged them to let him see her... Part of him didn’t want to know about the monster; she was still his mother, he still loved her, not matter what.

He had to breathe deep to shake the feeling away and even then…

Keller needed someone, anyone to take his mind off his annual nightmare; so who? Beecher? He’d be the perfect one to fill the void; bring Keller the escape he so desperately needed.

***********************

Later, Beecher wondered when things had begun going to hell that night. Maybe the whole thing was doomed from the beginning; maybe he’d underestimated how fucked up he was; surely he’d underestimated how fucked up *Keller* was.

Their first kiss had been hungry and raw but still good; they hadn’t even opened the champagne, sex was so urgent he’d let Keller fuck him hard against the wall, drag him to the bed, devour him with kisses and bites, fuck him again, harder and then…

“Just fucking stop it… You’re tearing my ass up!”  
Keller’s laugh was a menacing growl “Fuck that shit; I know you’re used to it; tell me your psychopathic boyfriend didn’t rough you up a bit?”  
“He didn’t and now just fucking stop this!”  
“Fucking liar; you love it.”

Maybe Keller was too far gone; maybe Keller was just crazier than he looked, maybe Keller was just plain wrong about him, he grabbed Beecher again and...

Beecher hit him with his clenched fist. Hard; out of panic, fear and anger and pain… Keller’s blue eyes changed to an unusual, darker, colder shade of blue, the expression on his face emotionless and the grip on Beecher’s hips tightened unbearably.

Oh God, Beecher thought, going absolutely still, he’s really going to hurt me.

It took Keller a few seconds to emerge from his rage; he wiped the blood off his lips and stood up, stepped back.

“Motherfucker,” he said, “you fucking hit me.”  
“Yeah? Did I? Well you fucking hurt me.”

The silence between them lasted too long, both of them naked, sizing each other up, breathing hard in the warm room; two boxers before the last round.

“Is that why you came over?” Beecher asked, “Just because you thought that after what I’d been through I’d agree to anything; that I’d be an easy score, that you wouldn’t have to put out any effort? It was all about a cheap fuck, just about getting laid, right?”

Too many questions and Keller, cornered, froze.

“I’m not really human to you, am I? Just some body to fuck senseless because I’m a soulless piece of shit?”

Keller grabbed his clothes and walked out of the room without a word.

”I’m getting the hell out of here!” he said.  
“Yeah? Go fuck yourself then and take the champagne with you, it wasn’t even a good vintage!”

Keller walked to the door; he was closing it when Beecher threw the bottle, Keller heard the loud explosion, broken glass… He stood behind the door for a moment, listening to the silence, wondering how the fuck he’d got himself into this.

Shit, he’d fucked up big time.

*****************************  
Ryan O’Reily stopped at the doorway to the visiting room, spotted Keller and walked up to him. He sat on the chair in front on him with the table between them, looking cool, his own imitation of a smile on his lips.

He didn’t even look surprised to see him, Keller thought. Maybe when you were trapped in here nothing could surprise you.

“Hey; It’s been a long time no see. You haven’t changed that much; you look good.”

Keller nodded once, acknowledging his old friend.

“Time’s been good to you, too.”  
“I’m copping. So, you’re on the right side of the law now?”  
“Hey, I always was.”  
“Yeah…Sure. Just that time in the supermarket, remember?”

Keller barely smiled.

“Nah! All of that was you; I just watched.”  
“Uh, uh. What about the credit cards?”  
“What credit cards?” Keller said, smiling.

They stared at each other in silence. They’d been so close; a whole childhood and more spent side by side in neighboring houses…

“So, what’s up?”  
“I need some information from you.”  
“Stuff like that don’t come for free here.”  
“Yeah, we’ll talk about it later. Do you know a guy named Beecher? He spent some time inside.”  
“Beecher?” The Mick’s expression changed, softened a bit, “Everyone knew Beecher, hard to miss, especially after good ol’ Vern took care of him… Poor guy; I didn’t think he’d make it after that… But he fucking toughened up. He’s gone now. Still visits from time to time; he can be a little crazy at times”  
“I gathered that much.”  
“I hope he’ll take up Cyril’s case.”  
“He ain’t God; you shouldn’t expect too much.”  
“Yeah, but Cyril’s brain doesn’t work right; the guy he killed provoked him like crazy. It’s unfair that he has to die for something like that.”

I shouldn’t have come, Keller thought, this place’s fucking with my head.

“Why d’ya ask ‘bout Beecher? Something’s going on?” Ryan O’Reily asked.  
“No, not really; I was just wondering, about him and Lennox.”

Ryan sat back, his eyes wary.

“The fucker’s dead.”  
“Yeah, I know; it’s not about that; it’s just, you know, Beecher and him...”  
“Beecher and him?”  
“Yeah.”

O’Reily seemed to give it a thought.

“I’m not into that kind of… Whatcha call it? Alternative life style? All I can say is… Man, they actually loved each other, how sick is that?”  
“Loved?”  
“Yeah well, Beecher threw a lot of shit at Lennox but the guy kept coming back for more sex, more every fucking thing Beecher had to give; on the other hand Lennox could be pretty scary but Beecher never looked scared. Had the fucker eating in the palm of his hand. Why you asking? Are you interested in Beecher?”  
“Nah, not *me*, come on; just… Curious. There’s a rumour going on Beecher’s the one who gave Lennox his ticket to hell.”  
“Yeah? Brought the shank in and all? Come on, Keller, get real, you couldn’t bring a metallic hair pin through the metal detectors.”

Keller leaned forward.

“The hack at the gate was drunk today; he didn’t even take me through the detector.”  
“But you’re an Assistant District Attorney, K-boy; you wouldn’t bring shanks inside.”  
“And Beecher’s a lawyer. He wouldn’t either.”

O’Reily straightened up, his smile fading.

“Listen, shanks in here… You can make one up with anything. A toothbrush, a bedspring…”  
“But it wasn’t some homemade shank. It was a sweet letter opener and I’d bet my new car it belonged to Beecher.”  
“Drop it. It ain’t worth it; Beecher’s a regular guy; he’s OK now that he’s out; don’t try to mess with him.”  
“Did you fuck him too?” Keller asked in a deceptively soft voice, a sneering smile twitching his lips.

O’Reily half rose, pale with anger.

“I ain’t no fucking fag, Keller; don’t you fucking…”  
“OK. Who else but Lennox?”  
“Fuck you; why don’t you go ask Beecher?”

A last sullied look and Ryan O’Reily was gone.

Keller left Oz more confused than ever. If O’Reily himself was on Beecher’s side something was seriously going awry. Fuck, Beecher had been someone’s prison bitch twice; so what the fuck was Keller supposed to do but fuck Beecher hard until him begged for more?

Except not. Except it didn’t work and maybe, just maybe, Keller thought, he’d got it all wrong from the beginning. And he didn’t like the idea, remembered a little too much how Beecher had looked, sprawled across the bed, this picture popping up at the most unexpected moments, but helping him a lot through lonely nights. Shit, he had to find some hot-blooded girl and forget about Beecher; all this had been a pathetic mistake, even a good lay wasn’t worth all this.

Still he kept the photo he’d taken on a shelf before leaving Beecher’s apartment, to remind him of *who* Beecher really was, and sometimes he took a look at it –the man sitting behind his desk, barely smiling, clear eyes full of shadows, a little girl on his lap and a boy leaning over his shoulder; then Keller let his gaze slide to the polished surface of the desk; something that had drawn his attention to it in the first place.

****************************

Beecher searched the whole house looking for the photograph, one of those he kept as a treasure because years in Oz had robbed him of the simple pleasure of looking at a peaceful domestic scene. When he wanted to pick it up for the family album he couldn’t find the pic anywhere –but maybe he still had the file on his computer? He found it, printed it out and…

Stared at it; felt something cold coil inside his chest; a chill ran through his veins, reached his fingertips and his toes, squeezed his throat.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The picture was nice but not exactly centered, something that he hadn’t noticed until now.

And on the desk was the letter opener he’d later given Lennox –the one Lennox had used to end his life, the one they’d found in his hand and probably kept hidden until the timing was right.

He was fucked all right.

Beecher thought about it a lot during the following sleepless night, remembering every detail of Keller’s disastrous visit. It was easy to guess where the picture was and what the motherfucker intended to do with it.

It took him the whole day to make up his mind.

It was the end of the afternoon; Keller would still be at work. Adrenalin-driven, Toby raced through the streets, parked the car haphazardly and ran up the stairs to the fucking office where, what a surprise, Keller was standing, leaning against a bookcase shelf, looking just effortless and cool, going through a file. An ordinary day at the office.

Ice-blue eyes met his, Keller raised an eyebrow.

“Fucking bastard; I’m gonna kill you,” Beecher snarled and Keller smiled with mild irony.  
“Right now? I don’t think you want to do that, Beecher.” Keller said.

In Beecher’s eyes, rage was burning like an all-consuming fire.

“You fucking stole the picture.”

Keller’s face was set in stone, his expression completely blank.

“Me? What the fuck are you talking about?”  
“There was a picture on a shelf in the hall of my apartment; you stole it.”  
“Yeah? Well, why the fuck would I do that?”  
“It was a picture of me and my kids.”  
“You and your kids? You know, I would eventually steal a picture of you, pin it above my bed and jerk off looking at it but your kids… I’m really not into paedophilia.”

Beecher leaned against the door, anger battling fear battling weariness.

“Fucking stop it, stop playing games with me, Keller; you know what I’m talking about.”

Keller shook his head, came closer, his eyes narrowed.

“Something’s bugging you; tell me, what’s so important about this picture?”

Keller’s hot breath, Keller’s warmth; Beecher stepped back.

“Don’t think you can fuck with my head, you fucker; I know better.”  
“The only thing I want to fuck is your body and you don’t want that.”  
“Not if it’s just about me being a piece of ass you use for your own convenience.”  
“Yeah, well, whatever. I don’t have your picture and if you don’t have anything else to add, I’d say this conversation’s fucking over.”

He stepped back and the temperature of the room seemed to drop all of a sudden…

“Ok, what do you want?”  
“I don’t want anything. Beat it, Beecher; you’re fucking nuts.”  
“Anyway a picture doesn’t prove anything and there’s no negative anymore; it could be a manip.”  
“Yeah, sure; so then why get yourself all wound up about it?”

A young assistant walked by and turned to look at them; Keller smiled at her; she blushed, waved to him and disappeared.

“Give me another chance,” Keller said out of the blue, his eyes dark with desire.  
“You must be joking.”  
“You were in prison, you know how important second chances are; you had yours when they released you.”

Beecher looked away.

“The rumour says you’re dating McClain; the bitch doesn’t know anything about what you need,” Keller still said.  
“And you do? You?”  
“I think I might, yeah; if only you’d let me try.”  
“Meaning fucking senseless into next month? We tried that already.”

Suddenly as Chris was standing there, so close, Toby remembered how easily Lennox used to read him, seduce him over and over again; how charming and smooth and smart he was; how he knew when he had to back off, knew when he’d gone too far and apologized, giving Beecher one of those rare smile to soothe him down and ultimately get what he wanted, how swift and sensual he was in bed. Christ, he missed this. Maybe Keller read him too but apologizing and backing off weren’t his style; he was determined to win this round now and Beecher, well… Beecher’s fighting spirit wasn’t so high; what he knew of Keller’s past made him cautious and uncomfortable. Did Keller make a secret of it? How he would react if Beecher broke the news? Probably he’d hold back the information to use later, single minded as he was, refusing to be distracted from his only goal.

Memories of standing at the pod door his hands flat on the glass and Lennox weighing against him and saying, “You’re my touchstone, Tobias,” and now Keller coming close again, reaching out for him gently and pulling him close while he was trying to cling to something, anything, find some strength and push him away.

This time the kiss wasn’t urgent or hard –Keller was a quick learner and the arms around Beecher weren’t trying to squeeze or crush, just hold gently. Keller broke the kiss before they were both dying from lack of air and rubbed his cheek against Beecher’s cheek. After that it was all in slow motion, Beecher’s mind frozen as Keller locked the door, came back to him, knelt in front of him, yanked down the suit pants and sucked him in like a real pro, keeping him on the edge of ecstasy long enough to tear whimpers of need from Beecher’s throat, Beecher’s hands bruising Keller’s shoulders, Beecher’s head thrown back, revealing a strong sinewy neck…

“God.”

I’ve never been blown by a man in a Prada suit, Beecher thought as he came; and seeing Keller kneeling in his impeccable suit, crisp shirt and discreet tie might be the most amazing, sexy, disturbing thing he’d seen in a long time; and the fantasy of this woollen cloth against his naked skin was almost enough to make him hard again.

“You like it,” Keller said, rising and kissing him again, “I know you do” and Beecher tasted himself and Keller at the same time, deft hands trying to strip him out of his clothes.

“Not here; if someone comes in…”  
“Everyone’s gone.”  
“Did you fucking hear me? I said no.”

No more sex in public places, never again, risking being caught, no more hurried frenzied fucking with anyone, standing against the wall, or some shit like this. The glass walls of Em City were forever engraved in his mind; the lack of privacy, the way Lennox used to hang the sheets to the frame of the upper bunk to hide them at night, until some fucking sadistic hack came and ripped them off, or ordered them to do so, sometimes dragging his or Lennox’s sorry ass to the hole.

Keller had to close his eyes for a second, take a deep breath to fight the urging desire and step back.

“OK. My place then? And while we’re at it, we have to buy something to eat; I’m starving.”  
“I’ll have to leave early in the morning,” Beecher said, “it’s my mom’s birthday tomorrow, I promised I’d be there with my kids.”

Keller’s gaze roamed over Beecher like he was some strange alien creature.

/I had no father and madness robbed me my mother; make me understand how it feels to have both. /

… Until Beecher felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny and Keller seemed to emerge from his daze.

“OK. Let’s go then.”

Sex this time was unhurried and cautious and slow –Keller had long nimble fingers and a insatiable mouth; he let his lips wander over Beecher’s round ass, tracing the evil form of the swastika burnt there and Beecher stiffened, wary, but Keller’s tongue slid further down between the cheeks, tracing the tight hole there, his hand kneading the narrow hips, soothing. This time Keller found just the right way to drag Beecher up to ecstasy without being rough or angry and they stayed there for some excruciating seconds, each one daring the other one to let go first, until they couldn’t hold back anymore and fell together, too fast, too deep, pleasure robbing them of their breath, their sight, leaving them stranded on the rumpled sheets.

A moment later they were ready for next round.

Much later, Beecher dislodged Keller’s arm from his chest, Keller’s leg from over his hips, eliciting a groan from the sleeping man, and went looking for the toilets, opening the wrong doors, catching a glance of rooms faded in darkness, too many rooms for a single man. An office, a second bedroom, a third one; who the fuck was this for? He didn’t want to know; it was Keller’s business after all; 5 years in Oz and Lennox’s touchy nature had taught him better than to go looking for the wrong things in the wrong places. He finally found what he was looking for and when he came back to the bed Keller opened sleepy eyes, looked up at him, held out a hand and pulled him down with him.

“Too early,” he mumbled and they both fell asleep again; before he sank in the comforting numbness of sleep, Beecher wanted to ask him again about the photo, but it was already too late, his voice was gone, and so was his mind, wandering past the borders of dreams where Duane Lennox was waiting for him.


	3. 3

**The course of true love never did run smooth...**  
  
“Do you really think, Tobias, that Mr Keller would… blackmail you? Denounce you? Use this picture against you? Isn’t it a little… exaggerated?” Sister Pete was talking in that smooth patient tone she probably would’ve used with a stubborn child, her eyes on Beecher’s tense shoulders.  
  
Beecher turned to watch her, uncertain looking –exactly like he’d been years ago, standing here, talking about Lennox.  
  
“I think he might.”  
  
Sister Pete shook her head and sat behind her desk. She didn’t like what Tobias was telling her and more than that, she hated what he didn’t say. Lennox’s death had been a relief, freeing Toby from his unhealthy passion and for a while, until today actually, she’d believed that Tobias would cling to Katherine McClain. She was a no-nonsense attractive smart woman, exactly what he needed. And now…  
  
“Tobias, as much as I hate to interfere with anyone’s life, I really think this is not what you need at the moment. As I told you before…”  
“Don’t Sister. I’m beyond help.”  
  
Then *why* do you keep coming here, seeking advice you won’t even follow, she wanted to ask. Instead, summoning her professional skills, she said, “No one is beyond help, Tobias. Now if you would tell me more about Mr Keller, I’m listening.”  
  
“Not judging.”  
“No. Not judging.”  
“He’s Michka Rivers’ son. Remember? I asked you about her two weeks ago.”  
  
Sister Pete gave him a stunned look but kept silent.  
  
As he tried to explain to Sister Pete the little he knew about Keller, Beecher realized he was far more intrigued by the man than he initially thought; he’d first pegged Keller as the ambitious self-made man, arrogant and cynical, straight and tough.  
  
Somehow though, it didn’t fit.  
  
***********************************  
  
Fucking, even once, makes all the difference. Makes you see all the little things you never noticed before –the way Beecher wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, the way his face scrunches up when he’s unsettled, and this noise, half snort, half mocking laugh that you came to associate with *him*. Makes you purr and want to do it again. And again. And again. Bury your cock in this wet heaven of a mouth, let Beecher bring you over the edge with skilful ease until you clench your fingers in his hair and bite back a growl; then pull him up and shove him against the wall, make him come with long slow thrusts, whispering dirty in his ear.  
  
Y _eah, well, get a grip, Keller. Beecher’s a nutcase and you should know better than going there. You should remember you promised yourself *never* to commit yourself to anyone like him.  
  
But then… A couple of –very enjoyable- fucks don’t make a commitment, does it? so what’s the problem? Come on, he’s good; why not just enjoy it for a while?  
_  
On the other hand, they’re also working in the same field and they meet on a regular basis in places that have nothing to do with fucking; this relation is a threat to his career. Time to know what you’re looking for, Keller; he doesn’t like you; someday he’s going to expose you for what you are and then what will you do? Plus he’s more or less dirty. You don’t like that.  
  
Actually Keller intends to break up, he really does; it’s the sensible thing to do; he prepared a nice speech and he’s going to deliver it any day now.  
  
But Beecher, vicious bastard that he is, cuts the grass under his feet; probably he’s done some thinking of his own.  
  
“I don’t like you,” he says on their fifth morning as he finishes dressing, sitting on the edge of Keller’s bed, “I don’t agree with any of your ideas, I don’t share any of your opinions. Sex isn’t enough; we have to stop this.”  
  
And that… that Beecher dares say it... Takes Keller completely off-guard, rousing the sleeping anger coiled inside him.  
  
“It didn’t occur to me that you had to feel any esteem for your fucks. Didn’t stop you from fucking Lennox, did it?”  
  
“That was in prison; call it whatever you want, I have no explanation but the fact is that I probably shared more with him than I do with you.”  
  
“I fucking can’t believe it. You really did choose your side, didn’t you?”  
  
“You don’t understand. Loving Duane was… situational; love born from the place, the moment, the circumstances and a mutual need. Plus, let me tell you something, Keller; killing himself with something that belonged to me tainting whatever reputation I had left somehow took the edge of.”  
  
Ah. This is the beginning of a confession, maybe.  
  
“Yeah well, psychos do those things, didn’t you know? Relying on what they call *love* is like sitting on a time bomb. You weren’t that naïve, were you? Letting you go must’ve been hard enough; hurting you in the process was a nice compensation.”  
“Psychos… Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”  
“Must be the company I’ve been keeping lately.”  
  
Beecher’s scowl almost makes him smile; get a grip, Keller, don’t let him play you for a fool.  
  
“Anyway now the situation’s clear,” he says “we’re done. That’s a relief.”  
  
So why does it hurt so much? Why does he feel so cheated?  
  
Beecher calls for a taxi; five very awkward minutes and he’s gone; but before he closes the door he says, “The only thing I’m ready to concede is that you are a much better fuck than he was. I hope it soothes your bruised ego.”  
  
That leaves Keller speechless; being treated like that by this … piece of work… He watches Beecher walk away, anger blazing and sinks into the nearest armchair, determined to drown his feelings in anything strong enough. Scotch will do; lots of it.  
  
Bitch, he thinks, alone in his living room still haunted by Beecher’s presence, his scent and the sound of his voice. Fucking miserable prison bitch… Someday you’ll pay for this.  
  
He retrieves the picture he stole at Beecher’s place, looks at it and calls Reuben, tells him he might have something in Lennox suicide case; Reuben doesn’t sound absolutely enthusiastic about it but Keller’s too severely drunk and hurt to care.  
  
He thinks he’ll dream about the revenge to come; instead of that…  
  
 _He’s back in Aunt Frannie’s little house in the eastern suburbs of the city. Keller never really loved her; he has no love left for anyone after what happened; he’ll never feel anything for anyone anymore; he grows distant and silent and more solitary as time goes by.  
  
He’s a wary little boy of 11; he still has nightmares about his mother. Nightmares about losing her, nightmares about her coming back. The doctors tell him that he doesn’t have to be scared; nightmares are for the mind to get rid of fears, nightmares are good even if he wakes up crying, terrified… Keller doesn’t believe them; how would he, that sounds so stupid.  
  
So… He’s lying half-asleep and suddenly here she is, livid and skinny, her hair tangled, baring her teeth at him, holding a knife and muttering curses. He just lies there shaking, thinking ‘It’s a dream; she’s not really here…’ A noise jolts him fully awake; Frannie’s rushing through the room, turning on the light and screaming while the ghost of Michka, the demon who possesses Michka, the other Michka that lives in the same body as *hers* raises the knife, ready to strike, the blade shining under the light like some venomous reptile. Instinct makes him duck and roll on his side across the mattress, then down to the floor, crawling under the bed. Then Frannie’s yelling, people rushing up the stairs and sirens already screaming outside…  
_  
  
He wakes up soaked with sweat, the sheets damp and cold; suspect wetness running down his cheeks. Unexpected tears.  
  
Yeah, well, he thinks, I’m fucking done with all the nutcases no matter how hot they look.  
  
************************  
  
The week went on without Beecher. On Friday he caught a glimpse of him walking out of the courthouse, hair too long catching the rays of sun like copper, skin slightly tanned and something in his stride that made Keller hungry. He was about to walk after him when Reuben called him from the doorstep of his office.  
  
“Keller… That evidence you wanted to produce against Beecher in Lennox’ case…”  
  
Keller turned, his face frozen in a bland expression.  
  
“Do you have it?”  
  
Keller counted to three. “Well, I’m afraid it was a wrong track… Sorry about that.”  
  
“OK. OK.” Reuben looked oddly relieved “So the case’s closed for good?”  
  
“Yes. I’d say so.”  
  
Reuben nodded, shook his head and walked away. Shit, Keller thought, I’m getting soft, and turned his face to the doors again, saw Beecher stepping in a black car –whose? The pang of jealousy took him off guard. Jesus, he had it bad for the guy.  
  
He expected to see Beecher again at the end of the week; they were supposed to be in the courtroom together –well, maybe together was the wrong word to use - a case involving a former house breaker. Keller suspected him to be guilty of a little more than what he was charged with; maybe he had killed a girl. Not much evidence, the guy was silent as the grave and Keller didn’t hold his breath, just doing his job.  
  
But Beecher wasn’t there and it was his father pleading. Keller lost –well, society lost, the guy gave Keller a triumphant look and Keller shrugged, turned away and walked up to Beecher’s father to greet him and ask about Toby.  
  
Harrison Beecher had probably heard about Keller; he gave the ADA a wary look and explained reluctantly.  
  
“He was assaulted three days ago in Oz; some guys got him in a corridor. They wounded the hack...”  
“How badly is your son hurt?”  
“Bad enough. He was in the hospital but he checked himself out yesterday. He couldn’t plead today, I took his place. God; sometimes I wish someone was able to talk some sense inside into him …”  
  
Beecher’s father stopped, looking embarrassed; he sighed and walked away.  
  
Keller drove to Beecher’s apartment straight from the courthouse, trying to calm down the sudden anger.  
  
When Beecher opened the door Keller saw the black eye and the bruise on the side of his face, the cut on the temple. But the gaze aimed at him was clear and cold.  
  
“Fuck off. I don’t remember inviting you.”  
“Open the fucking door already; your father told me what happened.”  
“Listen, a thousand people already told me all the smart things I should do…”  
“I bet they did. Let me guess? That pissed you off, stubborn as you are? Now I really think you should let me in, Beecher.”  
  
Silence; Keller lowered his tone, “The neighbors will talk if I stay here.”  
“Fuck the neighbors.”  
“Open the door, Beecher. I won’t even mention what happened.”  
  
Beecher opened the door and just turned his back on Keller, walked back inside without a word. He was limping badly. His hair was dirty, he looked extremely tired.  
  
“Christ, Beecher. How many of them did it take to bring you down?”  
“I saw at least four of them.”  
“What were they after? A beating? Or did they intend to kill you and got interrupted along the line?”  
“I don’t fucking know… Didn’t you say you wouldn’t mention it?”  
“I lied. Are you going to prosecute them?”  
“Of course I will. Glynn said there’ll be an investigation. My ass; I’ll never hear back from him.  
  
OK, paranoia striking in; not very surprising considering Beecher’s situation.  
  
Beecher sat on the couch, rather gingerly and stayed very quiet for a whole minute.  
  
“What do you want, Keller,” he asked.  
“Nothing. I just thought I’d make sure you were OK, since I don’t think you’ll call me if you needed anything?”  
“I’m OK. You can leave now.”  
  
Keller crouched in front of him, still wearing his jacket and tie, his eyes intent as they roamed all over Toby’s face.  
  
“Where doesn’t it hurt?”  
  
He saw Beecher flinch, and reached out for his cheek, the one that was barely scratched. Keller made his touch light and sweet; Beecher didn’t pull away.  
  
“I’ll go to bed early; tomorrow I’ll feel better,” Beecher said  
“Good idea, let’s go.”  
  
Beecher stared at him, then snorted and Keller rose, held out his hand and Beecher took it, looking dazed.  
  
“Come on, let’s go,” Keller said “I’ll tuck you in. You’ll tuck me in. I hope you don’t mind if I sleep naked?”  
  
In the bedroom he helped Beecher out of his clothes, saying nothing in spite of the bruises, the scrapes, and the obvious pain, just smoothing his hands down Beecher’s shoulders and arms.  
  
Maybe Beecher was just too tired to protest. Maybe he craved company; any company; maybe he missed him, Keller thought.  
  
“Hey, it’s not too bad. Could’ve been worse,” he said, smiling and Beecher smiled back, watched Keller strip.  
“Nice shoes. Very nice shoes, Keller.”  
“Thanks. I have pairs of these. I buy them from an English shoe store on the net. Same pair, different colours, that’s fine. Same for the suits; I’m not very good at buying clothes so once I find something I like I tend to stick to it.”  
  
Beecher wondered if he did the same with people; once Keller liked them did he tend to stick with them? The light went off and arms pulled him against a warm hard body. Later as Beecher was dozing off Keller said, “I’d rip the bastards’ heads off if I’d ever find them. Kill them, a slow agonizing death for doing this to you.”  
“Doesn’t sound very ADA-like to me.”  
“I stop being ADA at nightfall; after that I turn into Chris Keller, and believe me, he’s one mean jealous motherfucker. But I guess you’re used to that? If I’d been in Oz with you, no one would’ve come near you, touched you and lived. I would’ve strangled the bastards with my bare hands or stabbed them to death and baby, I would’ve loved that.”  
  
Beecher closed his eyes and pressed harder against Keller’s body.  
  
“But you’re not in Oz.”  
“No; neither are you.”  
“I can’t let go. It’s like letting go of a part of my soul.”  
  
Don’t you think understand? When Michka died I was lost; I would’ve kept going to the hospital just to fill the void. Isn’t it just what you’re doing?  
  
Keller kissed the damp nape of Beecher’s neck and reached for the lotion Beecher kept in a drawer, coated his cock, felt a deep shiver run through them both when he pushed his cock into the warm haven of Beecher’s ass, careful, cautious, his fingers around Beecher’s cock and that at least didn’t seem to hurt too much, considering the soft moans of pleasure echoing in Beecher’s chest and the whispers urging him to go on... Yes, please, yes; because it was so fucking good, so much better than anything he’d known.  
  
He brought the both of them off fast and hard and sighed, heard Beecher’s breathless laugh.  
  
“I like this Chris Keller much more than the other one.”  
“No shit? I’m glad then!”  
  
Keller fell asleep breathing in the damp curls on Beecher’s nape with a strong sense of satisfaction.  
  
 _Gotcha._  
  
By the light of dawn though the situation looked very different.  
  
Bathed in the rays of sun poorly filtered by the blind, Beecher’s lean body looked ragged. His skin wore the obvious marks of abuse; purple black bruises all along his flanks, covering his shoulders and thighs like some initiatory paintings, scraped knuckles testifying that he’d been fighting hard.  
  
No doubt Beecher would be hiding away long enough to lick his wounds before coming out again, renewed and angry.  
  
A wild animal. A bad guy.  
  
Now Keller, you gave up on the bad guys long ago.  
  
Soon enough he’d understood that every guy he fucked pushed him closer to something dangerous, insane, violent; that the sex, as blindingly good as it was, carried too much pain and self-loathing and that one day, any day, all hell would break loose and the career he was aspiring to as well as his life would just stop. So. No more leather bars, no more hot one night stands, mussed hair, dark eyes, lean sweaty bodies he liked so much to bruise, exhausted voices begging for more until he didn’t really know what he was doing to them. They’d not been bad guys really; Keller had this thing for innocent looking college boys, well-educated, well-dressed but shrewd and easy to seduce. Too different. Too easy.  
  
So Beecher…  
  
Was the closest to his private fantasy. Beecher was anything but innocent.  
  
Keep away from him, Keller thought and brushed back a loose strand from Beecher’s face. Except that it seemed unfair after all that he had to deny himself this rare pleasure of having the kind of sex he’d been craving for nearly 15 years. He ran his fingertips along the marks and the welts, spotted some he’d left earlier, kissed them, blew hot air against then and Beecher scooted closer and sighed.  
  
If he spoke, who would he call? Who was he dreaming of?  
  
He ran his hands across the bruised chest until he reached the curve of a hip. Beecher opened his eyes all of a sudden and looked at him; nothing dazed in his gaze. An abrupt change from deep sleep to plain consciousness.  
  
“I thought you’d gone,” he said, quiet under Chris’s fingers.  
“You’re good to sleep with.”  
“Yeah? I’ve been known for yelling in the middle of the night, though.”  
“Not this time. Plus I’m a sucker for silent lovers.”  
“Prison taught me that,” Beecher said, gazing at Keller’s pleasure-washed blue eyes, watching for any darkening.  
  
Keller just shrugged.  
  
“Yeah. That and more. Maybe I should put a bunch of flowers on Lennox’s grave after all.”  
“You’re not afraid of ghosts.”  
“Nah. I got some of my own and they’re scary enough; trust me on that.”  
  
Toby reached out and pulled him in closer, kissed him, losing himself in the sensation. Rubbed the palm of his hand against Keller’s stubbly cheek and shivered –Duane’s skin had been smooth and his short beard silky soft. But just like him, Keller turned his head to kiss Beecher’s palm and inhaled deeply the faint scent of sweat and come on the warm skin –Toby’s heart sank.  
  
“So? It’s morning again? Are you back to ADA mode, ready to lock the bad guys behind bars?”  
“Yeah,” Keller said, smiling against Toby’s skin, “and I should be going. I need to change clothes. Do you want me to come back?”  
  
Beecher smiled. “I think so.”  
  
Keller kissed him hard, rubbed his knuckles against Beecher’s cock, felt it throb to life and soften again.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Beecher said, “I’m afraid I’m just too tired.”  
“Yeah. You should rest for a day or two. Must hurt like hell.”  
“Are you going to tell me I shouldn’t go back to Oz?”  
  
 _I know better than giving you orders, Beecher; I bet you’d get a real kick out of pissing me off._  
  
“It’s your life; do whatever you have to. Isn’t it what we all do?” Keller said in a very neutral voice.  
  
That earned it a strange look.  
  
“Is it really?” Beecher said.

“Yeah, that’s the only way, Beecher. Are you still working on Desmond’s case?”

“He appealed so as long as he wants me to…”

“Let’s hope someone rids us of him before the new trial’s up, then.”

“You know, Keller, schizophrenia isn’t a synonym for violence.”

“I know,” Keller smiled and recited “Ninety nine percent of them are harmless.” His voice fell and he added “The one other percent’s Desmond. You shouldn’t wear yourself out for him; he’s not worth the effort.”  
  
Beecher snorted and Keller thought he was beginning to like the sound of it way too much.  
  
“I’m only doing my job, Keller.”

“Whatever…”  
  
Keller rose, put on his clothes.  
  
“I’ll be back.”

“You’d better.”  
  
The door slammed shut and Beecher closed his eyes again and went back to sleep.  
  
So, Keller thought, that felt a lot like a reprieve. While the rational part of his mind was beginning to solve the numerous problems raised by this unconventional liaison, the other part was only planning ways to snatch Toby away from Oz and turn the memories of Lennox to something distant and unimportant. Overpower, annihilate and dissolve any attachment Toby had ever known.  
  
*That* would be a very pleasant task.  
  
He put his mind to it, and his body.  
  
****************  
  
It didn’t quite work.  
  
Beecher’s company was… enjoyable; set apart the fights as a constant background to the relationship, and the clashes and the countless times Beecher or himself slammed the door, determined to leave for good this time, lips set in a straight line, shoulders trembling with anger, biting back the words that would kill everything –or not biting them back, for that matter; set apart the long weeks of loneliness spent hating each other and hoping nonetheless the other would make the first move –and that was generally Beecher’s business.  
  
They didn’t live together; that at least was unthinkable. Keller’s career, Beecher’s family and the unspoken feeling that they’d end killing each other ruled out any possibility of a common life. But then, there were the weekends, and many nights when Keller crept into the house, silent, cautious not to wake the kids up and leaving early, and there were holidays spent together. And the sex was so good that it made up for a lot, although not quite enough for the burden of keeping the secret; that was particularly hard for Beecher who wanted nothing more than live his love in the open.  
  
When Sister Pete, that frail bird of a psychologist died, Beecher stopped going to Oz; he’d lost some friends already and that loss was the final straw; he couldn’t stand the place without her. Six months later he took up teaching; students loved him and regardless of his dubious past now half-erased by time, the State University offered him a full-time job; he had to choose between being a lawyer and teaching –something he wouldn’t even have considered doing had it been Keller asking.  
  
They would’ve stopped hiding eventually but nothing went as they’d hoped.  
  
Approached about being the new District Attorney Keller weighed up carefully Beecher’s love and a career he had ambitioned for 40 years and made an impossible choice.  
  
“Christ, how I wish things were different,” he told Toby, his eyes suspiciously shiny, holding him tight.  
  
Toby had expected it; he said nothing. Keller was *brilliant*; he loved his job. He needed that as a revenge on a miserable childhood, a difficult youth and that reward for so many sacrifices.  
  
“Chris, listen;” Beecher said, keeping his voice level and firm “They’re no other choice.” He gave Keller a wet smile, “We can still have dinner together from time to time. You’re still entitled to have friends, I suppose? Even worthless friends who’ve been in prison?” 

“You are not worthless…” Keller said, frowning “And dinner will do just fine. You can invite me to your place for a last drink and no one will notice if I drive away a bit late.”  
  
Yeah well, that wasn’t exactly domestic bliss but he’d never expected it anyway.  
  
He was walking Beecher back to his car after a very long night, their shoulders brushing as they went.  
  
“It doesn’t make me happy, Toby,” Keller said, his eyes dark, flooded with panic suddenly –maybe he should change his mind.

“Me neither.”

“In the end, maybe Lennox had the best part. Listen, I understand it might be very frustrating; and that you might want to find someone else,” Keller said in a superhuman attempt at honesty, “live a normal life.”

“Shit might happen,” Toby answered and fuck, what could Chris say? I’ll kill the bastard, he thought and felt better. Even smiled and nodded.  
  
Beecher’s hand rested on the sleeve of Keller’s woollen overcoat that made him look so painfully *good* and he looked deep in those hard blue eyes, let his gaze roam over Keller’s mouth.  
  
“When will you be giving your final answer?” 

“Two days from now. Are you sure…”  
  
Beecher’s hand stroked his sleeve and squeezed.  
  
“Go ahead. You’d never forgive yourself if you chose otherwise. What we have… can survive. Differently.”

“I love you Toby. I’m sorry.”

“I love you too. Another time, maybe, in another life, we’ll make it better. For now, let’s enjoy what we’ve got left.”  
  
And something in Beecher’s voice said how little it was and how far from what he’d hoped. Keller’s heart sank.  
  
Their lips brushed lightly and Beecher sat in the car, strapped the safety belt and looked up at Chris, smiling.  
  
“Call me,” he said; but Keller couldn’t answer; he just nodded, his throat tight.  
  
Then he watched as Beecher drove away and walked back home slowly, wondering what they’d be able to salvage.  
  
 **The end**


End file.
